The Jungle eBook

up before me and say that he believes it can continue
forever; that the product of the labor of society,
the means of existence of the human race, will always
belong to idlers and parasites, to be spent for the
gratification of vanity and lust—­to be
spent for any purpose whatever, to be at the disposal
of any individual will whatever—­that somehow,
somewhere, the labor of humanity will not belong to
humanity, to be used for the purposes of humanity,
to be controlled by the will of humanity? And
if this is ever to be, how is it to be—­what
power is there that will bring it about? Will
it be the task of your masters, do you think—­will
they write the charter of your liberties? Will
they forge you the sword of your deliverance, will
they marshal you the army and lead it to the fray?
Will their wealth be spent for the purpose—­will
they build colleges and churches to teach you, will
they print papers to herald your progress, and organize
political parties to guide and carry on the struggle?
Can you not see that the task is your task—­yours
to dream, yours to resolve, yours to execute?
That if ever it is carried out, it will be in the face
of every obstacle that wealth and mastership can oppose—­in
the face of ridicule and slander, of hatred and persecution,
of the bludgeon and the jail? That it will be
by the power of your naked bosoms, opposed to the rage
of oppression! By the grim and bitter teaching
of blind and merciless affliction! By the painful
gropings of the untutored mind, by the feeble stammerings
of the uncultured voice! By the sad and lonely
hunger of the spirit; by seeking and striving and
yearning, by heartache and despairing, by agony and
sweat of blood! It will be by money paid for
with hunger, by knowledge stolen from sleep, by thoughts
communicated under the shadow of the gallows!
It will be a movement beginning in the far-off past,
a thing obscure and unhonored, a thing easy to ridicule,
easy to despise; a thing unlovely, wearing the aspect
of vengeance and hate—­but to you, the working-man,
the wage-slave, calling with a voice insistent, imperious—­with
a voice that you cannot escape, wherever upon the
earth you may be! With the voice of all your wrongs,
with the voice of all your desires; with the voice
of your duty and your hope—­of everything
in the world that is worth while to you! The voice
of the poor, demanding that poverty shall cease!
The voice of the oppressed, pronouncing the doom of
oppression! The voice of power, wrought out of
suffering—­of resolution, crushed out of
weakness—­of joy and courage, born in the
bottomless pit of anguish and despair! The voice
of Labor, despised and outraged; a mighty giant, lying
prostrate—­mountainous, colossal, but blinded,
bound, and ignorant of his strength. And now a
dream of resistance haunts him, hope battling with
fear; until suddenly he stirs, and a fetter snaps—­and
a thrill shoots through him, to the farthest ends
of his huge body, and in a flash the dream becomes
an act! He starts, he lifts himself; and the
bands are shattered, the burdens roll off him—­he
rises—­towering, gigantic; he springs to
his feet, he shouts in his newborn exultation—­”